I walk past the open glass door and kick my shoes off under the message board. The waiting room looks like it always does. The same blue carpet and the same green upholstered chairs full of parents. I drop my bag into one of the empty chairs and grab my dance clothes. I walk past the wooden lockers and the corner of used dance shoes into the dressing room. It used to be a bathroom, but it would flood any time anyone flushed. So they took out the toilet, put an area rug over the cold tile floor and added a comfy bench you could sit on to put on your tights. They left the sink so people could get water, since the bubbler never seems to have any, and of course a mirror.

After I change, I grab my iPod from my bag and sit in front of the lockers to stretch. As I reach for my toes, I look into the studio at the eight to twelve tap and jazz class. They’re full of energy and running around the studio as Meaghan, my dance teacher, gets ready to start tap. I tune out all of the chatter of the waiting room and focus on stretching. I check the time. It’s now 4:57 p.m. I wrap my headphones around my iPod and put it into my dance bag before grabbing my toe undies and water bottle.

I walk up the little ramp onto the black studio floor. I take in the familiar sights of Nemo, Minnie Mouse, and the Genie painted on the wall opposite me. The mirrors are in the front of the studio as they always are, and the bench under the windows is in the back waiting for a dancer to rest there. I drop my water bottle on the bench and plop onto the studio floor to put on my toe undies. The other girls in my lyrical class slowly filter in, tired from long days at school. I don’t make any effort to get up until I see Onaia, one of my best friends, finally enter the studio. I look up at the clock above the Cheshire Cat and Tinker Bell. 5:04 pm.

“You’re late,” I tell her, pushing myself up off the floor.

“I know,” she says unapologetically.
“Okay, ladies, let’s stretch,” Meaghan greets us, walking into the studio.

We go through our normal stretching routine. We stretch up and then down to the floor, rolling up after a minute or two. We roll our heads one way then the other before rolling our shoulders back. Onaia and I talk the entire time stretching by muscle memory built up over fourteen years at the studio.

Five-fifteen and it’s time for us to switch into the back studio. We push open the glass door and step onto the bright green felt between the studios. We all pile into this tiny space as to not disrupt the baton class that is just finishing up. As they finish up their twirling to “Ghostbusters” we slowly walk onto the cold grey tile. I put my water bottle on the table in front of Ariel and The Lady and The Tramp, amidst all of the costume boxes.
Onaia and I sit apart from the other girls and continue to talk while we stretch.

“So Mason and I broke up,” she tells me, looking for my reaction with her bright hazel eyes.

“What?!” I exclaim quietly, my mouth falling open.

“Yeah and he got everyone else in California to stop talking to me. But enough about me. What’s going on with you?” she asks as we switch legs.

I look at the the blue chair rail around the room, and the stereo blasting music in the corner before scooting closer to her.

“Ooh, this is gonna be good,” she says excited.

“So you know how I went to Steve’s on Friday?” I start.

“Mhm.”

“So he may or may not have kissed me.”

“Wait, for real?”

I nod.

“You little w****.”

“Wow Onaia, really feeling the love,” I reply laughing before getting up to do splits.

As we fall into our right leg splits she tells me, “Okay, but for real, I’m happy for you.”

“I don’t know man, he’s barely acknowledged anything happened all week,” I reveal dropping into my left leg split.

“Wow. Asshole,” she seethes as we both slide into our perfect center splits.

“Yeah…”

“So what are you gonna do?” she asks as we line up to go across the floor.

“I have no idea,” I respond, starting my kicks.

After that we focus on going across the floor. Kicks to the front, both sides, and back before our turns. After turns we leap, right, left, right-center, left-center, and switch. I always watch my leaps in the mirrors at the front of the studio to check for extended legs and pointed feet. Next are pirouettes and illusions, before we start passes. Passes are usually six variations on tombé pas de bourrée glissade leap, but sometimes we mix it up.

“Okay, ladies. Let’s see this dance,” Meaghan says as we finish our passes.

We split up and walk to our sides of the room. I grab my water bottle off the table and take a drink as the music starts. Since Sarah and I are the seniors our pass is last; I mouth the words of our song to her before our cue.

Rain keeps falling, Rain keeps falling Down, down, down. We piqué turn into our chaînés with our arms descending like rain on the downs. After our last chaîné we all stop, forgetting our next counts.

“Two lines!” Meaghan yells over the music.

The next twenty minutes are spent going over choreography, running the dance a couple times, and adding on before running it a few more times. We hit our last pirouette and Meaghan stops the music. It’s now 5:40.
Grabbing the stair mat, Meaghan says, “find some wall space.”

We all go to our different spots against the wall and lay down with our legs in straddle. We’re all breathing hard at first, but it slows down as we lay in the stretch.

“Bring them into butterfly,” we hear from Meghan a couple minutes later.

We all bring our feet in so they touch in the middle, making a better stretch for our legs.

The clock strikes 5:45 and Meghan says, “Okay, ladies. Close ‘em up. You’re done.”